Slaughter Cannot Be Spelled Without Laughter
by DashOfPeppers
Summary: Engineer is forced to leave his beloved team due to family tragedy. In his absence, a replacement must be brought in to fill his place. Much to the mercenaries surprise, it is not one they expect.
1. Unforeseen Tragedy

**Author's Starting Notes: This is a completely raw, unedited story I wrote back in 2013, but unfortunately erased due to file corruption. I've managed to recover it from the files in my computer and have decided to reupload it for the sake of my own curiosity. Although the editor inside me, as well as the writer who has gained 3 more years of experience, demands that I tear this story apart and rewrite the living daylights out of it, I plan to hold off on editing it until people express an interest towards it. With that, I certainly hope it is at least entertaining for all who bother to read it, and I encourage any criticism of note.**

* * *

Chapter 1

"A funeral." It was not a question, but more of a demand.

"Yeah," came the awkward, hesitant reply. Engineer uneasily interlaced his fingers together as he rocked back and forth on his heels, staring at his feet. An exasperated sigh slithered from the other end of the line, and Engineer could practically _see_ the Administrator pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance. He swallowed thickly as her voice hissed out in a cold, unhappy drawl.

"I should have been told sooner."

"I understand that, ma'am. But unfortunately, due to the, uh, short notice, I'll have to take my leave this afternoon. For the legal papers and such."

There was a long, silent pause on the other end, and Engineer flexed his sweaty palms, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. His forehead grew uncomfortably hot under his helmet, slowly growing moister by the second. The Texan didn't know why he was so nervous; the Administrator simply had that awful _quality_ of stiffening a man's spine and bringing sweat to his brow seconds after he heard her chilling voice. Her cold, unpleasant intonation was a constant prodding to any mistake the RED mercenaries had made. Engineer tried not to hold a conversation with her as much as he could. Unfortunately, this was one of the rare occasions.

"Fine," came her crisp voice, still laden with irritation. Engineer felt his shoulders rise slightly, chest swelling in sudden triumph. He didn't expect her to agree so easily! He found himself battling the urge to whoop in heightened delight and dance in place like a school boy who was just released from his class. Her voice, however, continued, and removed his elation as quickly as it came.

"But your absence will cost you your replacement, especially with the difficulty of even providing one." Engineer's thrill diminished, and his face was set back to its grim frown. There was the Administrator that he knew, decking his pay and relinquishing any chance at playing poker with the boys for at least a month.

Engineer forced himself to ignore his disappointment, nodded reluctantly, and then remembered that she couldn't see him. "Yeah," he grumbled, shrugging off his dissatisfaction. "Thanks for that." The line went dead in an instant, the low insistent hum of the phone resonating from the comm. No "you're welcome". No pleasantries. Simply business.

The Texan sighed as he removed the devise from his ear, pocketing it before snatching his small bag of luggage. His face fell into a depressed frown as he hoisted up his luggage, his stomach still as cold and heavy as when he received the phone call for the funeral. It was his mother's, who had suddenly died from a heart attack. There was no tragic sickness. No death bed or pre-mourning stages. She simply kicked the bucket when her heart stopped beating as she strolled through the neighborhood park. The Texan was not close with her but the loss still pained him. And he imagined the heavy weight in his midsection would remain for some time, no matter how many times he pounded at it. Engineer sighed again, rubbing his gloved-hand over his face.

"It's gonna be a long week."

* * *

The Administrator rubbed her chin thoughtfully as she thumbed through the pile of papers stacked on her desk. Her eyebrows were knitted together as her lips curled into a thin line. She settled into the seat of her desk, glancing idly at Miss Pauling, who set the mug of coffee at the edge of the table before retreating back to her own desk. The Administrator huffed in irritation as she flipped through each slip of paper.

Curse the man's sentiment! She needed him on the battlefield, not meandering into sappy, depressing gatherings for the dead. The dead were dead, and did not require a final party in their honor. Besides, the Engineer was a skilled mercenary with a sharp mind—practically the reason why she hired him. His works were brilliant and he was worth more than ten ordinary soldiers. It would be difficult to replace him with the correct mercenary; none held such a defensive skill and yet fortified offence. Except…

Her eyes lit up when a file was revealed at the base of the papers. Silently she pulled it out, opening the golden cover. Her lips quirked into a sly grin as she scanned the information printed in long, detailed paragraphs, the smirk growing wider as she read each sentence. She chuckled slightly once she looked upon the photograph paper-clipped onto the sleeve, feeling pleased with herself. Setting the file down, she snatched her phone and dialed the required number. After several moments, the Administrator heard a soft click and a confirming voice.

"Y'ello~~~?"

The Administrator leaned back in her chair, still fingering the photo in her hands. "Hello, Mrs. Peers. I'd like to make a proposition for you…"

* * *

"So, when's Hardhat comin' back?" Scout splayed his body across the crimson couch, hat tipped over his eyes as he tossed a baseball into the air, the object whistling above before soaring back down. Scout caught it and repeated the action. Sniper sat in a chair next to him, cleaning the barrel of his rifle, the other disembodied parts of the weapon scattered over the wooden table, waiting to be cleaned as well. Pyro wandered in and out of the room, obviously lost without the Engineer's company. Distant roars from the hall confirmed Demoman and Soldier's location, apparently consuming large amounts of alcohol in the kitchen. Medic remained in his usual lab, conducting whatever maddening experiment he saw fit. Heavy and Spy were nowhere to be found.

Sniper sighed as he sipped coffee from his '#1 Sniper' cup, setting his barrel down as he shrugged. " 'aven't a clue, mate. Shouldn't take longer than a week."

Scout groaned dramatically, sitting up with the baseball clasped in his hands. "A week? We have ta hang with Engie's replacement for a week? Ya gotta be kiddin' me!" The teenager proceeded to then pout, crossing his arms and sitting back with his lip curved in annoyance.

A ghost of a smile touched Sniper's lips as he proceeded to clean his scope. Scout acted just his age—loud, moody, and bloody _annoying._ He could chatter for hours, mostly about baseball, and not look the least bit tired, while his peers held massive headaches, several with a heightening temper and lust for blood. He didn't blame the boy; he knew all teenagers held the energy and excitement that had drained from the older men over the years. In fact, Sniper imagined he was much like Scout at his age, if not a bit more naïve. But it was incredibly amusing to see the boy worked up over the absence of Engineer and his replacement. Personally, Sniper felt the same. He didn't like the change in his team, no matter how temporary; it disrupted the team's efficiency with a newbie with no experience and no gained respect.

Sniper shrugged as he took another sip from his mug. "Aye, you'll just 'ave to bare it, mate." It wasn't advice just for Scout.

Scout stared at the ceiling in silence with his lip still curled, and Sniper continued the tedious task of removing any and all grime from his scope. They were left to listen to the boisterous shouts of Demo and Soldier, which came as regularly as the chatter from a radio. However, Heavy's massive voice suddenly boomed across the base, causing the two men to jump.

"New teammate is here!" Scout and Sniper shared a surprised glance and the voices of the two drunks halted. The replacement was here already? There was a pause of shocked silence before they heard the click of a door and Heavy's voice rumbling in confirmation. "Da," was all they heard before the rumbling of boots against the floor overwhelmed the voices. Scout and Sniper scrambled out from their seats in exaggerated haste and bolted toward the voices.

Immediately, questions rushed into Sniper's head like a tidal wave. What would this replacement look like? What would he prefer to be called? Was he skilled in anyway? What country was he from? Of course, these questions had developed the moment he was informed that a replacement would take over Engineer's job, but they emerged once again as Sniper made his way down the hall. He wanted these questions answered.

When he reached the front, a circle had accumulated around Heavy and the unknown mercenary. Sniper expected chatter or at least a murmur of awkward welcoming, but heard none to his surprise. He stared at five of his teammates' backs to find each still and stiff as a wooden board. He shoved his way through them to find their faces utterly blank, if not partially widened in shock. Furrowing his eyebrows in puzzlement, Sniper finally squeezed through the men and looked to the center of the circle. He could not keep his breath from sucking in with bewilderment as well.

It was a girl. Incredibly short—practically dwarfed by Heavy's bulk—her arms were thin and bare, tanned slightly by the sun. Her hair was long and red, tossed over one tiny shoulder, and her eyes were a bright green, beholding a curved face. Her lips were thin, but a more attractive sight than the reptilian lips of their Administrator. She couldn't have been more than five feet and one hundred and eight pounds. But it wasn't her size that alarmed Sniper.

It was her clothes. If they could be called that. The Australian saw her shorts more as red underwear with two-inch long pant-legs, and she wore…a bra? Perhaps a bathing suit top to some, but to Sniper it was practically a woman's undergarments. Her boots were long and reached to just below her knee, and Sniper wondered who in the blazes the designer of _that_ was _._ To behold whatever modesty she had left, she wore an unbuttoned jean jacket, which concealed two gun holders hanging from beneath her armpits.

His dignity as a gentleman on the line, Sniper struggled to look away. But instead, his eyes met hers. There was something…off about her gaze. Brimming with some unidentified emotion. It wasn't happiness, although many could mistake it for such. It was…something _more._ He couldn't name it, but whatever it was, it unsettled him. Made his insides squirm. He immediately felt uncomfortable under her unblinking gaze and he looked away.

The room was silent for several moments, an air of tense awkwardness hanging about. Unsurprisingly, it was Scout who broke the tension.

"Hey!" he cried in his Bostonian accent. He extended a hand to the girl, smiling lopsidedly. "Welcome to the RED team!" The girl stared at his hand for a moment, before smiling and taking his hand. Everyone stiffened further at the gleam in her eyes as their insides twisted again. Scout's smile wavered for a moment before returning back to its original state. "Erm, I guess you'll want to get settled?" He pointed to her bag, which was massive and bulky. The girl continued to stare at the teen with an unblinking gaze, the smile still plastered on her face. He swallowed. "R-right…" Hesitantly, he grabbed her bag and pushed through the men, the mercenary bounding after him. Not one pair of eyes left her form until she turned around the corner, her hair trailing behind her. Even as Scout's voice and the patter of footsteps faded, the four men remained silent and still for several more minutes.

"She…is Engie's replacement?" Sniper finally whispered. She looked as if she could barely hold a wrench, let alone build a dispenser or sentry. Had their Administrator gone insane? Or did she simply want to amuse herself as the BLU team slaughtered them in minutes?

It seemed the rest of his team felt the same. "Well…we're dead tomorrow," Demoman grumbled in his drunken slur. "The wee lass might as well be a newborn pup. She can't 'elp us."

Soldier angrily shook his head, the helmet sliding around with the sudden movement. "That ain't a soldier! That's a disgrace to this team! We aren't a baby-sitting unit! We might as well be another man down!" The American then began to rant on the principles of manhood and how women simply should not be in the army due to their soft interior and exterior. Pyro began to babble behind his mask, but none of the mercenaries could understand him. Sniper drowned out the angry voice of Soldier with his horrifying thoughts, wondering how they could possibly survive against the BLU team without their Engineer. It was hopeless. They would be utterly humiliated for the rest of the week with the tiny girl cowering behind a corner. He felt a warmth envelop his shoulder, and the Sniper looked back. Heavy stood behind him with a massive hand over the Australian's shoulder. The Russian's expression was horrified as he stared at the wall in which the girl retreated behind, shaking his head.

"Little girl is too skinny. She cannot carry dispenser like Engineer."

Sniper swallowed thickly and nodded in agreement. A cold, sharp worry buried itself deep into Sniper's abdomen, the chill spreading across his limbs like running water. What were they going to do?


	2. Final Introductions

Chapter 2: Final Introductions

"And she is very tiny. Smaller than baby Scout!"

Medic hummed in thought, a gloved hand stroking in circles around his chin. His thick eyebrows were scrunched in contemplation as his eyes darted around his lab, scanning over the notions in his mind. Heavy stood at the opposite side of the operation table which held the bitter aseptic tang of some unnamed cleaning chemical Medic used to disinfect the area. The aroma hung over the room like a thick cloud, tickling Heavy's nose and irritating it. It did, however, mask the putrid odor of rotting blood that would otherwise be there, so the big Russian did not complain.

Again Medic hummed, the sound rumbling deep in his throat as he crossed the medic room in long strides. "I vould assume ze _fräulein_ iz only in her early twenties?"

"Da."

The German doctor nodded slowly, pushing his round glasses further up the bridge of his nose. His face softened and he sighed. Medic threw his hands out, open-palmed, on either side of him in a surrendering manner. "Zere iz nozing ve can do about it, Heavy. Ze Administrator haz made her choice, und ve must respect her judgment."

"But she is tiny baby!" cried Heavy once again, throwing his hands up vexation. How many times did he have to repeat it to the doctor? As much as he respected the German, there were times when Heavy wondered how he ever graduated medical school without any common sense. Perhaps he discarded it when he needed more room to stuff all the medical facts into his head.

Medic quirked his eyebrow and answered in a patient tone, "So iz ze Scout." The Bostonian was actually very tall for his age, reaching six inches higher than their beloved Engineer. Medic was referring more to his build than anything, from what Heavy understood.

Heavy waved a massive hand in a dismissive gesture. "He has no problem. He is so fast, bullet cannot catch him. But this girly…I do not know if she takes Engineer's place." He shook his head. "She is too small."

Medic sighed, sliding his fingers under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Heavy felt as if he was irritating the man, which he did not want to do. He considered the doctor a good friend, and the first one he bonded with in the heat of battle. The last thing Heavy wished to do was make the doctor angry.

But Medic did not seem angry—only tired. He ran a hand through his thick black hair—something Heavy was secretly jealous of—as he stretched his neck, popping the stiff joints. He nodded silently, shutting his eyes for a long moment, his breath coming in even pauses. After several minutes rolled by, Heavy wondered if the man had fallen asleep standing. But suddenly Medic opened his eyes, blearily staring at the Russian.

"I suppose ve vill discover how good—or bad—she iz tomorrow."

* * *

"So…uh…here's your room!" Scout threw out his hands in a presenting manner in a fail attempt to make the dark, plain room seem welcoming. The walls were a faded red, slightly cracked after the distant impacts of constant explosions on the roof during their skirmishes with the BLU team. A lone bed sat silently in the corner, looking far smaller than Scout remembered, accompanied by a tiny nightstand. A small window on the far side of the wall let in the glare of New Mexico's scorching afternoon sun, casting a blaring orange light over the room. Scout was reminded that their base was created only to shelter the mercenaries for the night before they awoke the next day to the blaring of a siren and the ear-shattering cracks of bullets. It was not designed for comfort. And certainly not designed for a woman. Scout glanced at the girl sheepishly, wondering why the freak he was embarrassed. He wasn't in charge of the construction of his base.

The red head didn't seem the least bit affected, however, as she bounded into the spare room, jumping onto the bed with excited energy. The ancient springs creaked loudly in response once her backside collided onto the mattress and she was propelled up into the air before plopping down once more. Her too-wide smile never faded as she watched Scout hesitantly set her bag beside the bed. He smiled lopsidedly when their eyes met, but his gut twisted violently when her eyes again shined with that disturbing glint. He hastily looked away and mistakenly stared at her chest. His cheeks heated at the exposed skin and lack of clothes, and quickly averted his gaze. That didn't help much, with her flat stomach and shining legs. He swallowed hard and focused on her shoulder, the only part that seemed to keep his mind from reeling.

There was a long pause of awkward silence as Scout stood there and the girl swung her legs over the bed's edge like a child, the springs creaking with each motion. "So…" Scout began, glancing at the corner of the room. The girl's gaze burned a hole in his flesh, and he shuffled on his feet. "What…what's your name? Like, what'd ya want us to ya?"

Before another word could be spoken, a faint hiss resounded at the doorway, and Scout's neck prickled with irritation. It was a struggle not to groan in exasperation as he barred his teeth and turned to glare at the doorway. As expected, Spy stood there, leaning on the doorway as he took a long draw from his cigarette, his eyes scanning over the two with a blank expression. His lips curved into a faint smirk once his eyes met those of the red-head, his eyebrows quirking up slightly as he glanced at Scout with amusement in his features as if to say, _'Ah, trying to get a girlfriend so soon?'_ Scout curled his lips and folded his arms across his chest as he set a steely glare onto the Frenchman. He snarled as silently as he could, hoping his thoughts would collide into Spy with the force of a train.

' _Back off, spook'._

But it was a hobby of Spy's to irritate his teammates. He ignored Scout completely as he stepped inside the room, exhaling a plume of smoke that then drifted to the roof. He smirked as he stared at the girl with sharp eyes. "Ah, so this is ze Engineer's replacement? _Bonjour, madame._ " He bowed gracefully, his voice rumbling with each syllable. His French accent grew thicker with each word that slipped past his lips. He knelt down, took her hand delicately, and placed a kiss on it, his blue eyes still fixated on her. Scout looked horrified, which only seemed to encourage the man further. He cast a quick, mischievous glance at Scout, before continuing further. " _C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer._ And it is a pleasure to welcome you to ze RED team. I am known as ze Spy." He straightened and tilted his head to her in a graceful manner. "And what may I call you, _belle dame?"_

The girl was silent for several moments, Scout teeming with fury next to her as Spy's smirk grew wider. It seemed the Frenchman's charm had rendered her speechless in only a mere minute. Scout was cursing him in every way he knew possible, the urge to strangle him growing stronger. He glanced anxiously at the girl, awaiting the inevitable swooning and gawking. Spy's gaze was still settled onto the girl, but Scout was certain his cocky smirk was directed towards him. There was a soundless pause before the girl finally reacted. And it was, at the very least, an unexpected reaction.

She began to laugh. It started slow and soft, like releasing bouts of breath underwater and watching the bubbles float upward to the surface. Then, gradually, the pace hastened and grew louder. She was soon doubled over, her knees tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped tightly around her thin legs. Her mouth was wide open utter glee, exposing shining white teeth. She held a high-pitched cackle, like a hyena howling in the night. And along with pitchy tone, the laugh possessed...an unusual quality. It was something that added to her unsettling gaze, heightening its disturbing trait. And it was unending.

Scout stared at Spy in bewilderment. The Frenchman's smirk had fallen, replaced by another blank, unreadable expression. The woman's cackling filled the room, replacing what would have been awkward silence. After her face had turned an impressive shade of purple, she collapsed onto her side and took deep gasps of breath, her lips still quirked in that smile. She stared at the frozen mercenaries with gleaming eyes as she sat up like a snake, her spine curling upward as her head drooped in accordance to the motion. She released one final hearty chuckle before biting her bottom lip and said, "I'm the Operator, French Fry!"

The Spy's nickname was so abrupt and unexpected, Scout snorted loudly as he struggled to hold back his laughter. His face turned red as he snapped his mouth shut and snickered, eyeing Spy with unhidden glee.

Finally, there was some feature about her that was expected: her voice. It was high-pitched with a tinge of thrill, with the stereo-typical sass of a Californian woman. She flashed a smile at Spy, whose eyes hardened as he casually adjusted his already-straightened tie. "I see," he said, eyeing the girl with far less attraction. Scout could practically taste the Spy's displeasure, which lifted his spirits to the heavens. He grinned widely, eying the Spy with triumph as the Frenchman took another draw from his cigarette, ignoring Scout's sneer. "Well zen, _Operator._ I must inform you zat we will hold a meeting," he glanced quickly at the clock hanging from the wall, "one hour from now in ze conference room. I suggest you attend it so you are familiar wiz our strategies. I expect ze Scout will show you the way." He set a steely glare onto the Bostonian before nodding curtly in farewell to both of them and disappearing out of the room. Once Spy's footsteps faded into soft echoes, Scout turned back to Operator, who was still flashing her wide grin.

Scout smiled at her. "You're pretty cool! I'm not sure Spy has ever been turned down by a girl before. Did ya see his face? Priceless!" His grin grew wider in fondness of the memory, making certain to file the remembrance into his most doting folder. "So!" he cried as he leaned against the wall beside her, folding his arms so she could see the full view of his 'gorgeous' muscles. He flaunted his most seductive smile as he went for his winning phrase that would certainly make the girl fall head over heels for him:

"Ya like baseball?"


	3. Anxieties

Chapter 3: Anxieties

The strident whine of a siren was what pulled Demoman from the comforts of warm, unbroken slumber and into the agonizing depths of Hell. He awoke to a searing heat spread across his entire body, causing his limbs feel as if they were on fire. His head pounded mercilessly with each piercing screech of the bloody alarm, his mind swimming and spinning ceaselessly. The Scottish cyclops moaned miserably as the racket continued, shoving his head into his pillow in hopes to block out the horrid noise. The blare seemed louder than usual, sounding more like a jet engine shrieking into the ears of a mouse. The sheer volume sent Demoman's head reeling as he struggled out of the fishnet of his sheets and tumbled with the grace of an elephant onto the wooden floor. He laid there for a second longer as he tried to decipher between the ceiling and the floor.

Perhaps he had one bottle of scrumpy too much. Demoman was a heavy drinker, with the resilience of a bull when it came to any drinking challenge. He could out-drink the burly Russian Heavy, who had a belly twice the Scot's size, and continue winning against Soldier and Engineer. However, after the black cyclops had set eyes on the tiny lass that was to be Engineer's replacement, he rushed to drink away his anxieties and rising panic with a crate-full of his homemade 'scrumpy'. It comforted him no further to learn that the girl had never attended their daily strategy meeting, much to the Soldier's rage. Demoman blinked as he struggled to recall what transpired after, but his memory was so foggy he might as well assumed Pyro stripped him down and shaved off his chest hair (A quick glance into his shirt obliterated that worrisome—and somewhat disturbing—notion).

Babbling out slurred obscenities over the roar of the siren, Demoman pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of his room, toward the supply room where his uniform and weapons awaited him. Due to the hindrance of being unable to see straight, the Scotsman slammed into the hallway walls countless times as he adjusted his eye patch, his fellow teammates eyeing him with either annoyance or mild concern as they sped past him. He grumbled unhappily as each passing footstep pounded at his skull. He hoped the Medic would be there already once he arrived; he couldn't possibly continue in combat with such a painful hangover.

"Whoa, man! What happened ta ya? Ya look more hammered den usual!"

Demoman winced at Scout's characteristically—and unnecessary—loud voice, blinking blearily at the shorter man who seated himself onto one of the wooden benches in the middle of the supply room. The others in the room—Spy, Sniper, Heavy, and Pyro—all glanced curiously at the Scottish demolitions man, who ignored their stares as he mumbled incoherently under his breath. Unfortunately, the Medic was not there yet, and so Demoman was forced to attempt to load his grenade launcher with one excruciating headache and unsteady vision, which was already compromised due to having only one eye.

Preoccupied with muttering oaths under his breath as he fumbled with his bright red grenades, Demoman did not notice a furious Soldier tramp into the room, face crimson under his oversized helmet. He swung his head around, glaring at the mercenaries' faces as his helmet straps slapped his face, before halting onto the Scout's. In one swift motion, he loomed over the Bostonian and boomed, "You!" Both Scout and Demoman yelped in surprise, each dropping their weapons onto the floor. Demoman glanced at the Soldier in stun, cringing at the American's roar.

"Weren't you supposed to keep an eye on that weakling of an American? Where is she? The blood battle begins at o' six hundred!"

"Heck if I know!" Scout shouted back. Demoman recoiled at the volume and shoved his head into his awaiting palms. Oh no. Not an argument now.

"That coward is hiding beneath all her drapes while her teammates are awaiting certain death! She might as well be a traitor!"

There was a shift of clothing when Scout abruptly stood, shoving his nose against Soldier's. "Hey, cut her some slack! It's her first day!"

Soldier growled, the noise vibrating deeply in his throat. "She didn't even attend the meeting! Where was she?"

"Like I know! I was in da meetin' with you people! I couldn't find her before dat!"

"Making excuses for a traitor, boy?"

"Heck no, old man! Why don't you just take your little trumpet and shove it up your—"

"Ah, vy are you two _dummkopfs_ arguing at such an early hour? _Ehrlich,_ I am vorking vith babies now."

 _Oh bless that bloody giant of a German doctor!_

Despair immediately transforming into relief, Demoman turned to the doorway and peered through his blurry vision to find the Medic sauntering in, adjusting his round glasses up the bridge of his nose as he blankly stared at Soldier and Scout with his dark grey eyes. Usually, most people would be imitated by the German's bulk, with only several inches shorter than the Heavy and beholding massive hands that could very well strangle a full-muscled wrestler in mere seconds. However, Soldier and Scout weren't considered 'ordinary folk'. Scout, according to his own proclaimed tradition, stepped forward and complained first.

"Flag Boy over here is sayin' dat it's _my_ fault Operator ain't here yet! I don't even know where the freak she is! She disappeared before da meetin'!"

Soldier released a harsh bark of mocking laughter before shoving a meaty finger into Scout's chest. "And it was _your_ duty to look after that hippie! Now she is missing! She ran off like the true coward she is!"

Scout's face turned more crimson than his shirt as he stood closer to Soldier (Great Scot, how can that even be possible?) and curled his fist into a tight ball. The mercenaries around them tensed and shuffled forward, prepared to pull the two back with force if a fistfight began. Medic's eyebrows lowered and wrinkled into a frown, his patience obviously wearing thin. Just as his lips parted to say something, the Administrator's crisp voice rang from the speakers hanging overhead.

"Mission begins in sixty seconds!"

Almost immediately, the vibrant color on both Scout's and Soldier's faces diminished as they hastily snatched their weapons and yanked on the rest of their clothing. The remaining mercenaries followed suit, not casting the two another glance as they pocketed extra knives, sandviches, and arrows. Even after they were suited up, they stood patiently and silently at the doorway, nodding slightly at each other as they gripped their weapons.

Many would be incredibly bemused at the sudden lack of fury of the two most reckless REDs after such a heated discussion, but that was how things went in Teufort. At one moment, the humid air was filled with furious roars and bellows, and then the next it was booming with laughter and glee. Scout and Soldier were certainly known for their thick skulls and simple ways, but they weren't foolish. They knew when it was time for an argument to cease and shake hands. Perhaps that was why the RED team tolerated their bickering.

"Mission begins in thirty seconds!"

Demoman frowned as he stood on his wobbly legs, momentarily forgetting his hangover as he scanned over the room. He scowled when he found no head of crimson hair waiting along with the team. It seemed their 'Operator' had truly abandoned them. He shook his head as his hand began to twitch, aching for his missing bottle of scrumpy. His stomach curled into a tight knot, bringing a pang of nausea to his form. He wasn't quite sure if it was due to the alcohol or the chilling anxiety spreading across his limbs.

Bloody hell, they were doomed.

* * *

Medic was not impressed. His gloved fingers curled around his medigun as he hoisted it up to his hips, pumping out the crimson cloud of additional health onto his teammates. He received grunts of gratitude in return, but he ignored them completely as he focused on the storm brewing inside his head.

Missing a meeting on the first day of the job he could dismiss. Even the Operator's absence during dinner was something one could easily overlook. But missing during mere _seconds_ before the true turmoil began? And _even then_ she still might not come? Medic clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the handle of his precious weapon. Oh no, he was certainly not impressed.

But perhaps he was exaggerating. After all, Medic was not impressed by a lot of things. Like when Scout jammed a massive chunk of peanut butter inside his toothpaste (how he possibly managed _that_ will always remain a mystery), writing it off as a 'joke'. Little did the Scout know that the German was _incredibly_ allergic to peanuts, making both of their days extremely unpleasant. Neither was Medic amused when Heavy accidentally stepped on Archimedes, the German's most treasured dove. He had to beg the Administrator to allow Respawn for the poor bird, who couldn't possibly survive Heavy's weight.

And so, yes, he was exaggerating—under-exaggerating. Medic was not 'unimpressed'. He was _livid._

Before his mind could fantasize on how slowly he would _strangle_ Operator after they were utterly _slaughtered_ , a short cough caught his attention. He turned to find Demoman, whose eye seemed more red-rimmed and unfocused than usual, glancing at him in embarrassment. Medic's eyebrows quirked up when he noticed the beads of sweat dripping down his wrinkled brow and he wrinkled his nose once the intense wave of scrumpy hit him.

Demoman made a vague gesture bordering between apology and humiliation. "I daon' mean ta ask ya of this lightly, Doc, but…" He eyed the medigun in desperation, his lips twitching as a result of the obvious pain pulsing through his head. "Ya see, I drank a wee bit more than I should 'ave, and…well…" He trailed off, throwing his hands out in a way of finishing his sentence. He stared at Medic with misery, and the German could hear the unspoken plea in the Scotsman's awkward silence: _'Please don't make me say it aloud, Doc. I got a hangover and I'm not proud of it. Don't make me say it.'_

Medic sighed in understanding before muttering about the foolishness of drinkers and pointing his medigun at the black cyclops. Once the scarlet mist swathed over him, Demoman sighed in relief, relishing the absence of his pain. His shoulders lifted as a spark of energy erupted into the demolition expert's chest and he flashed the Medic a grateful grin. "Thanks, Doc." Medic grunted in acknowledgement before turning back to Heavy and pumping more health into the giant of a man.

"Mission begins in _ten_ seconds!"

Ah, there was no point in angering himself over the absence of the Operator. He needed to remain focused on the task at hand, which was making certain his teammates were breathing and combatable. Beyond that, the matters were left for his team to work out.

"Five."

He just hoped-

"Four."

-that their defeat-

"Three."

-wouldn't be—

"Two…"

-entirely humiliating.

"One!"


	4. Insanity

Chapter 4: Insanity

"And there goes your head, you bloody wanka."

Sniper smirked in subtle satisfaction as his latest victim—a BLU Pyro—had no time to even cry out in horror as his head exploded into a pink-tinted mist. His limp body was thrown back by the force of Sniper's bullet, tumbling onto the feet of a stricken Heavy, who took one glace at his decapitated teammate before swerving back from whence he came. His booming voice trailed across the field with the volume of a war trumpet.

"Sniper on deck!"

The Australian's pleasure faded as quickly as it came when whistles pierced the air. He cursed under his breath as he dropped to the floor, the bullets sailing over where his head had been mere seconds ago. The golden spheres buried themselves into the wood, splintering the planks and causing debris to rain down onto Sniper. The lanky man scrambled away, back into the shelter of 2fort's top left tower. He pressed his back against the corner as he hastily loaded his rifle, listening to the roar of the enemy's minigun.

Why was it even _called_ a minigun? Whoever created the massive piece of machinery must have had either a sick sense of humor or an unbearably large amount of sarcasm. Sniper had no time to muse the subject further as the bullets persisted, tearing into the rather flimsy walls surrounding him. He hissed in pain once a sudden fire erupted into his calf, triggering an entire bonfire to spread from the tip of his toe to the right side of his hip. Biting back a scream of agony, he crawled away before he heard the deafening boom of a rocket soaring from its launcher. He glanced through the window to watch the projectile soar towards the BLU Heavy, his own RED Soldier roaring at the Russian in a vociferous rampage. Unfortunately, the burly heavy weapons expert ducked, allowing the rocket to explode harmlessly behind him and the BLU Medic. Sniper grumbled in annoyance and retreated further back into his base.

He needed a medikit. Although it was not incredibly vital for Snipers to have full capabilities of both legs, the Australian didn't seem to mind removing the ball of metal imbedded into his leg. And so he limped across his base, searching the areas for the massive container holding the supplies necessary to remove the bullet. His mood darkened when he glanced back to find himself leaving a trail of blood. Oh good. Just what he needed. He was practically _begging_ the enemy Spy to stab him in the back. What else shouted 'venerable victim' louder than a fresh track of blood?

Keeping his jarate close ( _Oh,_ he knew just how much Spies _hated_ that little jar), he substituted his sniper rifle as a crutch as he shuffled through the halls. He tensed when he heard the soft footsteps emerge from the other end of the corridor, and he raised his jar slightly higher, eyes scanning the darkened end. Just as he saw the corner of clothing peek out from other end, he rose his jarate above him and snarled.

" _Nein, Sniper! NEIN!"_

The Australian hesitated once Medic (or the BLU Spy?) halted in front of him, hands thrown up over his face as he flinched.

Sniper gritted his teeth as his hand was still poised above his head. His eyes scanned over the doctor carefully, scrutinizing every detail of his face. "Well?" he demanded, rising his jar threateningly. Swiftly, the Medic preformed the RED's personal hand signal, created specifically for teammates to decipher between a Spy in disguise and the true mercenary. Satisfied, Sniper grunted and pocketed his jar, which earned a look of minor disgust from Medic. "Wot are you doing so far into base, mate?"

The panic subsidized from Medic's eyes as he sighed unhappily. "Ah, Heavy vas taken out by ze BLU Demoman. I vas forced to retreat back inside ven zeir Pyro came close. However, Scout seems to have dealt vith ze Demoman."

Sniper nodded. "Pyro's out too, for the time bein'."

The doctor quirked an eyebrow before muttering, " _Danke_." He glanced at the Sniper's leg, which bled more profoundly with each passing minute. "Ah, allow me." Hoisting up his medigun, he aimed the barrel at the Australian's injured leg. The machine started with a low hum, glowing with the odd red mist. He sighed in respite as the raging fire cooled.

"Thanks, mate."

The Medic only nodded in response, concentrated on the wound. Sniper watched as the bullet floated out of his leg, levitating in the air before it finally dropped onto the floor with a soft _clink_. Slowly, his muscles healed, the skin wrapping around the closing hole.

When Sniper had first been healed by the Medic, he had been utterly fascinated by the concept. But after years of living with a Pyromaniac, a hyperactive boy who could literally jump onto thin air, and a black Scottish cyclops who was secretly a skilled swordsman, Sniper had learned to expect the impossible, and adapted to ridiculous situations. Coming back from the dead through Respawn and replacing missing limbs in seconds was no longer a new concept to him.

"Alert! The enemy has captured our intelligence!" The Sniper and Medic looked at each other in horror once the Administrator's words rang into their ears, their jaws loosening in utter surprise. Wasn't Engie supposed to be guarding the intelligence? It'd take several minutes just to get past his sentries—

Oh. That's right. Their beloved Texan wasn't there. He was spending a week at his aunt's house, musing over legal papers regarding his mother's inheritance. He was replaced by a _ginger-haired girl,_ who didn't even _talk_ to them, _completely missed their strategy meeting, and wasn't. Doing. Her bloody. Job._

Before Sniper could growl in fury, he noticed the air shimmering above the Medic. A cold, deep sense of dread took him, and he opened his mouth to alert the German. His reflexes, however, were far too slow to match with the BLU Spy's, who glistened into existence with his knife falling in between Medic's shoulder blades. The man gave a sharp gasp and jolted, unintentionally burying the blade deeper into his flesh. Sniper realized with dismay that the BLU Spy must have struck a vital organ, for Medic's eyes rolled to the back of his head. He gave a final shudder before collapsing onto the floor with a sickening _thump._ Sniper groped for his jarate, fingers curling around the smooth surface, fingernails screeching against the glass in a desperate attempt to yank it out. The BLU Spy's eyes flared with terror, which soon was replaced by immediate determination. He yanked his butterfly knife out of Medic's corpse with an appalling squelching sound before advancing toward Sniper. With incredible speed, he swiped his knife in a graceful arch at Sniper, who dodged swiftly. Unfortunately, he did not evade the blade completely, for it tore his clothes and earned him a long scratch along the length of his arm. He snarled before finally abandoning the attempt of retrieving his jarate, instead unsheathing his kukri.

He _knew_ how to fight in close combat; he _lived_ in the Outback for _four years._ He battled against crocs every other day, fitting his grip onto their massive jaws to pry them open. He was still alive, so _of course_ he knew how survive with just a knife and the blaring heat on his back. But Spy wasn't the Outback, and definitely not some croc. Spies were far more _dangerous_. They were snakes. They coiled around you, sneering at you as they slithered away from any slash you made with your kukri. Their angular eyes always stared into your very soul, freezing you in place before they sank their fangs into your flesh.

And no matter how many years he spent battling against this one damned _Spy_ -no matter how many times he studied the Spy's movements and calculated his speed-he was always unpredictable, the sly cheeky _wanka_. The RED team was skilled, yes. They had won countless battles against the BLU, stepping over the guts and blood of their enemies and relishing in their glorious victory. Their mercenaries held experience and skill ordinary soldiers would cower under. But the BLU team?

Sniper released a low growl at the base of his throat as he thrust the kukri at the BLU Spy's throat, who evaded the blade nimbly. His eyes shimmered with victory while Sniper felt his gut sink in defeat, knowing full well the limits of his skills. The Spy spun behind him, flashing his dagger as if it was some prizewinning trophy, before Sniper felt the knife sink it.

He did nothing to keep the agonized cry contained in his lips. The blade brought a new definition to the word ' _pain'_ , along with that sharp, fiery, _spark_ that grew across his back like a tree's roots, and just _remained,_ savoring every slowing heart beat and every passing fear. Sniper's vision quickly darkened as he felt hands slowly lower him to the ground, the agony tearing at his mind.

Well, maybe that was the reason _why_ the REDs were fighting against the BLUs. Because the BLUs were the only ones that could hold their own against the REDs. And even _win._

* * *

"Alert! The enemy has captured our intelligence!"

Spy paused for a moment, his 'Spy-cicle' hovering inches from the BLU Sniper's neck as he glared out into the open field. His fellow RED team froze, eyes wide in either dismay or fury, before swiftly returning to their own base, parting ways to cover every and any exit point. Even Scout, who looked longingly at the BLU base, sped off with his teammates, realizing the foolishness of darting into an enemy base with no back-up. Spy frowned, sheathing his dagger into the Sniper's neck and ignoring the man's surprised cry, which was quickly extinguished when he turned into solid ice. Brushing the dust off his crimson suit, he swiftly cloaked again before slinking off towards RED base.

A small part of him had hoped that the Administrator hadn't lost her mind after the years of war. He had hoped that she still held a small piece of sanity when she selected the replacement of their Engineer. He held a small optimism that perhaps, just perhaps, their replacement was intelligent and efficient, just like their Engineer. Those wishes, however, were immediately thwarted last night, during the Operator's absence at the meeting. Since then, the Spy had wallowed in disappointment glazed over with indifference, which had then transformed into recognition.

Of _course_ the Administrator would give them a dead weight for a teammate. She wanted to observe the team's efficiency with the absence of defense. She wanted to monitor their strengths and limitations, and see exactly how quickly they _crumbled_ under the slightest touch, or if they remained strong without their Engineer. Spy was unconcerned by this; he would meet the challenges readily, prepared to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goal and pass whatever _test_ the Administrator was putting him through. But his team?

Each of them was far too thick and focused on their own goals to fathom what Spy said and did on a daily basis, besides perhaps the Sniper. But that was to be expected; the Australian's job was to observe each and every one of them from a distance, be it RED or BLU. But he was far too dull to _understand_ the Spy or his silent schemes. With enough poking and prodding, he could influence his teammates into any plan he created. So he had no doubt that he could manage his team through this _test_ of the Administrator's.

Unless it wasn't a test. Unless it was something far more…personal, meant only for a certain mercenary who discovered several _very_ dirty secrets of the Administrator's. Perhaps she had discovered who hacked into her computers and searched her files, perhaps…

' _Non, non. Do not be such an imbecile. Focus on the task at hand.'_

Spy snapped himself from his musings as he slithered through the corridors of his own base, his weapon poised and prepared for any assault, which _certainly wouldn't be necessary if the Operator was doing her part_. He scanned the halls carefully for any sign of the BLU Scout (he was quite certain it was the BLU Scout, for who else could capture the intelligence so quickly?), prepared to ambush the young mercenary in the shelter of the deep shadows. However, before he made his way down the second passageway, there was a muffled _boom_ as an explosion shook the ground, followed by a pause. Suddenly, Spy heard an agonized screech echo through the base.

"The enemy has dropped our intelligence."

Spy frowned, walking through the hallway at a faster pace. Demoman couldn't have killed the Scout; the delay was too long. Who had killed the Scout? Perhaps it wasn't entirely of importance, but what was a Spy if not curious? Rounding the corner of yet another hallway, he finally found what he expected. And yet, it was so incredibly startling.

The BLU Scout was indeed lying motionless on the floor, the RED suitcase sitting on the ground several feet with several dents in it, due to the impact of Scout's descent. As the Spy inched forward, he heard the sharp hiss of warning, and he immediately halted. Peering through the darkness, he found Demoman at the far end of the hall, his dark skin closely blending with the shadows. His lone eye glowed from beneath the darkness, staring wide-eyed at Spy. His lips were parted in shock, but the firm glare that he gave the Frenchman was enough to keep him from moving. Spy quirked an eyebrow, glancing around him in a silent gesture of puzzlement. Demoman did not shift, shifting his gaze between Spy and their enemy with barely-restrained shock. The Spy studied the Scout a second time, trying to decipher the reason for Demoman's odd behavior.

The Scout's body was mostly concealed in shadows, and Spy was forced to strain his eyes to peer closer. His eyes widened slightly, his brow lifting as he stared at the form, struggling not to expose his utter revulsion. Their enemy was cut in half. It was clean, neat cleavage that completely separated his torso into two parts. But this cut was curious than most—alright, perhaps curious a slight understatement. It was _appalling_. For not only was the wound grotesquely precise, it was _cauterized._ The skin was melted and burnt to a crisp, forming a barrier of charred flesh to prevent the organs and blood from spilling out onto the floor. It left a revolving cloud of the most ghastly stench hanging over the body, and it took every ounce of Spy's willpower and pride not to spill his half-digested breakfast onto the floor. Instead, he cleared his throat steadily and adjusted his tie casually to disguise his overwhelming disgust.

"I see…What exactly 'appened?"

Demoman grimaced at the memory, taking a swig of his scrumpy (where on earth did he find _more?)_ as he shook his head. "I was plannin' on ambushin' the bloody rabbit down the corridor, but the lad jumped over me bombs just as I activated 'em. I was hot on his tail as he was running down the hall, then…" He paused, wrinkling his nose in repulsion. "These _lights_ just appeared out of the bloody walls and sawed the boy in half! Right down to the _bone!_ " He added emphasis on his last word by taking another gulp of his bottle, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

The Spy processed the new information in silence, pulling a cigarette from his case and lighting it. The taste of tobacco helped his mind clear, the smoke refreshing his senses as he lowered his brow in thought. It couldn't be a new security system; the Administrator would have informed him of the addition, so not to alarm the mercenaries. It was certainly not something the Engineer had installed, for he would have also told them of his new design. Cautiously, Spy inched forward, much to his cyclops friend's distress. Knitting his eyebrows together, he studied the wall, searching for possible burn marks or holes. He ran his gloved hand over the boards, feeling for any divot that might indicate the location of the 'lights'.

"Ah, so you found the Wispies, French Fry!"

Demoman tensed immediately, snapping his grenade launcher up towards the sudden sound as his eye burned with adrenaline. Although he felt his heart skip a beat, Spy kept his expression neutral as he calmly turned to the voice. Displaying a mask of indifference, he rose an eyebrow as he watched their short replacement stroll down the hall, her lips still quirked in the overly-zealous smile. She looked just as she did yesterday, with the addition of a large, transparent brace strapped around her left wrist. Bright colors danced across its surface before fading with a shimmer, Operator's fingers swiping across it with intense speed and ease.

"' _Wispies_ '", Demoman echoed, voice still laden in astonishment. He shook himself from his shock and took a step forward. "What the bloody hell are Wispies?"

Operator's smirk grew wider as she murmured, "These." With a flick of her hand across her odd brace, a low crackling sound resounded before a fishnet of bright lights emerged from the wall where the Scout had been, bathing the hallway in a dim crimson light. The girl's eyes glowed eerily in the scarlet radiance as she stared proudly at the so-called 'Wispies'. Spy glanced at Demoman for confirmation, who caught his eye and nodded slightly. These were indeed the lights that cleaved the Scout in two.

Before Spy had the chance of considering commenting, heavy-weighted footsteps thrummed against the floor boards, followed by the ominous whirring of a specific five-barreled minigun. Shouting out "Duck!", the Spy tore down the hallway, throwing his full weight onto Demoman and causing them both to tumble to the floor. The BLU Heavy's minigun roared to life like a savage predator, filling the air with red-hot bullets. They gnashed at the wood above the two mercenaries, showering them with debris. With hisses and angry curses, the RED team struggled to untangle themselves and escape the minigun's range of fire. Sparing a glance behind his shoulder, Spy watched the Heavy advance, his lips brought to a grim smile as he sprayed his ammo at the RED's heads. Knowing full well that Spy could not escape in time, he froze, wishing not the first time to have the Dead Ringer. He waited for his inevitable fate with baited breath and a thundering heart. Although he would wake up fifteen minutes later in the Respawn room with a massive headache and a taste of ash in his mouth, dying was still incredibly unpleasant.

But the bullets never struck his body. He never felt the searing pain of a thousand insects feasting on his flesh. Instead, it was the BLU Heavy that fell, beheaded by a _second_ set of 'Wispies' that ran across the ceiling. A swift, sudden hiss resounded when the giant lost his head, and the whirring of the minigun ceased immediately, falling to the ground with a loud clatter. The BLU Medic, standing several feet way, froze in horror as he watched his patient collapse lifelessly to the ground, his massive head rolling away. Shaking himself, he glared at Operator, retrieving his syringe gun, and aimed it at her frail form. With speed that almost matched the Scout's, Operator pulled out her own weapons from their holsters, and began to fire.

Spy was an emotionless being, labeling any sentiment as unnecessary and surplus. He felt none of it, for that was the very essence of his profession. Feelings were inadequate and pathetic, which was why Spy chose to discard them long ago. He had never experienced any further emotion during the past decade, and he intended to keep it as such.

So there was no possible way, not an _inkling_ of a chance, that Spy was _afraid_ at that moment. His spine certainly did not _shiver_ when the girl began to cackleas she pierced her enemy _over_ and _over_ again with bullets. He definitely did not feel disturbed as that spark emerged in her eyes, far more intense and blood-thirsty than before. Spy's tongue did _not_ go dry and his mouth did _not_ taste like ash as he watched the BLU Medic collapse onto the ground, and yet Operator was _still_ spraying him with bullets. And as her high-pitched laughter echoed across the hallway—as her eyes shown with complete and utter _insanity_ —she continued to squeeze the trigger after her handguns expelled every last ball of lead, her shoulders shaking with each manacle screech.

Spy was perplexed, perhaps. He might even go as far as concerned. But he was most definitely, in all honesty, not utterly _disturbed_ by her laughter, that seemed it would never cease. The masked man, who had experienced pain and torture no sane human could endure, and still slept peacefully, would certainly _not_ have haunted dreams with those harrowing, inhuman cackles screeching in his ears.


	5. Suspicious

Everyone wanted to speak with Operator that night. The RED's final rounds were a massive success, their base impenetrable with the girl's Wispies and various other booby traps littered across the encampment. Barely any of the mercenaries had to defend their headquarters, and so they were able to push into the BLU's base with far more ease than usual. Operator was the main topic that day, every mercenary squeezing past each other to her ask questions about her lasers and traps. Even Scout, who captured at least five briefcases that day and yearned for more attention than anyone on RED, didn't mind when all ignored him to speak with Operator. Everyone was fascinated by her diverse weaponry, scaling from complex laser designs to nets peppered with an odd electric spray, which paralyzed anyone it entrapped. Everyone was awed. Everyone lent her respect.

Everyone-except Spy and Demoman. Medic watched them under a keen eye as he half-listened to the elated conversation about Operator's victims, Heavy's gravely laughter shaking the walls. Spy leaned against the far corner in the main room, quietly smoking his cigarette with his arms crossed and eyes half-closed, completely detached from the boisterous group. Demo lounged on the arm chair, staring blankly inside his untouched bottle of scrumpy, eyebrows wrinkled slightly.

Medic frowned as he studied the two, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Normally, he would not have noticed nor cared about the Spy's behavior; the man's very personality was centered on mystery and emotional detachment, dotted with the frequent dry sarcasm and witty jokes. Medic was not troubled by Spy's indifference, despite the pleasant victory the Operator had won them. It was Demo that concerned the German. For once, in the entire course of three years working with Demoman, the Scotsman was _sober._ Every minute of every _day_ Demo was drunk. To remove the man's whisky was the same as removing wings from a bird; they were inseparable, and without each other, they were incomplete. So for the cyclops not to be utterly intoxicated with his homemade brandy at such a night like this, Medic was incredibly disturbed and perplexed. Silently, he pondered the notion of asking the Demoman what was wrong.

But he could not question it further once Heavy's roar reached his ears, cutting off his thoughts.

"That slaps me on the knee! You are good for team!"

The RED mercenaries buzzed loudly, adding their approval. Even Soldier, who had voiced his displeasure of Operator most clearly that morning, smiled brightly, adding, "A true American!" He brandished his bottle of whisky into the air, shouting a hearty, "To victory!" before chugging his bottle down with gusto. Most of the mercenaries repeated the action with passion, patting the girl on the back as they did so. The line seemed a little cheesy, but the RED team was too drunk to care. They then continued on their night with enthusiastic arm wrestles, which then turned to fist fights, which then escalated into full-on brawls. Once the clock struck ten, Scout and Soldier were tangled over each other on the floor, trying to drunkenly land a punch on the other, while Pyro mumbled praises. Heavy eventually joined the fray, landing clumsy punches onto both teammates, who decided to gang up on the giant Russian. Sniper guffawed at them, clutching his #1 Sniper cup in his hands before a glass of water shattered over his head. Hastily, he retreated down the hall to the safety of his own camper. All in all, it was a normal night at RED base.

Medic chuckled fondly, turning his gaze from the fight to locate the remaining mercenaries. Demoman was splayed over on his seat, drool spilling from his lips as he slept with loud snores. Operator and Spy, however, had disappeared.

* * *

Spy listened to the distant cries of his raucous team members as he crept down the halls, his cloaking device activated and masking his presence. Normally, on the battlefield, his invisible form would shimmer every time he moved, unable to copy the surrounding hues quick enough to provide sufficient cover under dire circumstances. However, inside the base, his watch had memorized and calculated every crevice of the base, every dent and faded red wall burned into its mechanical reminiscence. At times, the Spy would amuse himself with his cloaking device, sneaking up on unsuspecting prey and knocking things over to startle them, preferably Scout. The Bostonian was far too thick to suspect Spy behind these happenings, and always yelped, babbling about a 'freakin' ghost' coming to haunt them. Never had he had an important reason to use his watch. Up until this point.

Up until this point, there had been an Engineer, wise and cheerful, as he tinkered with his products, muttering about advanced mechanical additions that would enhance his machinery greatly. Even when he seemed so enthralled by his work to not notice even a nuclear detonation, he always jolted at the slightest of sound, looking up from his work to smile kindly to whichever mercenary had stumbled upon him. The man always had his teammates' backs, a trusty sentry beeping an almost gleeful tune behind them. But the Texan was now replaced with a mentally impaired girl with an overzealous fondness of pain, death, and screams of her enemies. She told them nothing about herself (although Spy could certainly overlook that, seeing as he was a master of secrecy), held no cooperation to her teammates when they specifically told her of the tactics meeting, and then left them to stew in their own anxiety for the next twelve hours when she disappeared from sight. It was enough to bring suspicion and massive annoyance to the Frenchman.

Spy pressed himself against the hallway as he reached Operator's dorm, staring at the open door through narrow eyes. The room was dimly lit with only one light bulb hanging at the ceiling, casting a golden light over the room. The floor was cluttered with metal plates, bolts, and nuts, wires entangled over the clutter like a spider's web. Operator sat at her desk, fiddling with an odd mechanical chip, blue sparks bursting from the metal, hissing like furious snakes. The girl hummed an odd tune as she poked at the chip with metal tweezers, readjusting wires in a complex arrangement. She was too engrossed in her work to notice the Frenchman slip in, who then retreated to the farthest corner to remain concealed in shadow.

Spy had been suspicious before, at the time Pyro joined their ranks. The pyromaniac seemed far too cheerful and incomprehensible to trust. It didn't help that his counterpart held a hobby of setting the Frenchman on fire, which bared its sweltering teeth into his skin and began to feast, the flames encasing his body like a second suit. Spy had watched the mumbling psychopath under a keen eye, tensing every time the man (or woman?) had come near his teammates in fear that he (or she) would deceive them all and begin a blood bath. However, as the weeks turned to months and the odd teammate had done nothing to reveal any treachery, Spy had reluctantly accepted him as a fellow RED, even if the babbling maniac had eagerly tried thrice to light his cigarette with his flamethrower, an act he did not appreciate.

But the Operator was different. She was not polite like the Pyro—or at least _tried_ to be—and made no move to socialize with anyone. Despite the fact that she and Scout had conversed the day before, the runner did not seem to know anything about her excluding her 'bootiful face' and skills. And yet, without any effort, Operator had gained the trust of at least half of the team in only twenty-four hours. Sniper and Demoman seemed distant with her and Medic was neutral, as far as Spy knew. But the Frenchman had seen too many double-agents in his line of work to write off the Operator as a cackling lunatic.

And so, he watched her with grey, steely eyes, his face hardened and fingers brushing against his butterfly knife as he calculated her every move. He did not care that she was a female. He did not care that she was utterly helpless in this situation.

If Spy's team was threatened, he would give her Hell.


	6. Without Trust, There Is No Teamwork

Two days passed. Five missions were carried out. The REDs completed each one flawlessly. And the RED's love for Operator grew. She had become the ultimate defense, her unseen mines and pressure plates far more harrowing than a seven-hundred pound, heavy caliber tripod-mounted sentry gun beeping eerily in the hallway. These deadly explosives resembled silent, scentless death, and with no material or mechanics to detect them, the BLUs were utterly slaughtered once they crept into the RED camp. And so the remaining defensive classes became offensive, thus given more firepower to carve through the BLU base with ease. They had captured more briefcases than in the history of the RED team, even with the lack of their trusty Engineer. Operator was RED's savior, the final class that allowed the REDs to go beyond stalemates and into more difficult victories. The teams were no longer at equal strengths; with Operator, RED team was legendary.

It was a pleasant change for Sniper. He no longer had to glance behind his shoulder every other minute to find Spy with a dagger brandished and aimed at his back; due to Operator's new installation of sensor mines at the entryway of every deck, anything BLU would be blown to pieces once they passed under the doorway. The BLU Spy had already learned his lesson during their latest mission, leaving a charred Frenchman and a very gleeful Australian at the end of the completed task. Sniper was finally able to sleep without the mental prickle of some sharp, offending object digging in between his shoulder blades at night, squirming beneath his sheets as he struggled to purge the sensation from his consciousness. He was grateful for that.

Each day brought success to the RED team. Today was no exception.

"You win!" roared the Administrator, her voice laden with snide pleasure as if she had done the deed herself. Simultaneously, Scout, Heavy, and Soldier bellowed in victory, raising their weapons in the air with glee as they enthusiastically chased the retreating BLU team, still eager for further bloodshed. The enemies' defeated cries echoed across the two bases, followed quickly by sharp cracks from a bullet loosened from its barrel. The hollers were immediately cut off, and faintly, a gurgling croak was heard.

Sniper sighed as he settled himself onto the exposed deck, his long legs dangling over the edge as he removed his hat from his head, swiping a hand over his thick black hair, still moist with sweat due to the blistering heat of New Mexico's deserts. The remaining REDs slowly made their way back into the base, shoulders slumped in exhaustion but faces cracked into wide, relieved smiles. As Pyro passed, he glanced up at Sniper and threw him a cheerful thumbs-up. The Australian grinned in return and nodded his head. The pyromaniac practically danced back inside.

The boisterous trio eventually made their way back across the bridge, each equally splattered in a fair amount of blood and gore, displaying wolfish grins as they explained to each other how many pieces their opponents exploded into, several accounts rather morbidly detailed. Sniper grimaced in disgust, his lips curling in repugnance as the three shoved each other through the door, snickering obnoxiously.

Certain that his entire team was inside, Sniper allowed himself a weak chuckle as his eyes softened, easing his muscles to a more relaxing position. He scanned the tattered, battle-scraped landscape fondly, allowing a wave of peace to take him. He always enjoyed the end of battles. There was always a quiet stillness in the air, when the birds slowly emerged from their holes to greet the dusk for a short while, content that no further battles would ensue. In these hours, Sniper felt at home, with the setting sun on his back and the tiny creatures chirping anonymously around him. Although the birds sounded nothing like those in Australia, he still enjoyed their songs and the soft flutters of their wings.

A flicker of red caught his eye and Sniper snapped out of his revere, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He focused his gaze curiously on Spy, who stood leisurely outside the base, staring at the wooden boards that made up the entryway, the smoke drifting lazily out of his cigarette. Sniper waved at the Frenchman to catch his attention, eyebrows drawn in a curious wrinkle. The masked man's gaze flickered to the Aussie and nodded curtly to him. Pausing for a moment too long, the Spy stepped inside the base and disappeared from Sniper's line of sight.

Sniper frowned, his lips drawing into a thin line. Sliding himself off of the deck and landing on the dirt with bent knees, Sniper then straightened and followed Spy into the base.

"Oi, Spook!" he called out just as the silhouette of the man began to fade into the shadows. Spy paused and turned, arching an eyebrow at him with awaiting puzzlement, his gloved hand folded behind his back as he still held his cancer stick in between his fingers. Sniper paused in front of him, running his gaze along the Spy's form, searching for anything out of the ordinary. A wound, perhaps, or an oddly misshapen limb. Was his tie too tight? Suit too wrinkled?

Spy cleared his throat loudly, narrowed silver eyes boring into Sniper. "Iz zhere somezhing you need, bushman?"

Sniper jumped at the sudden sound, lips curling further into a frown, and flashed him a skeptical look. "Yer alroight, Spook? Ya look a little…outta sorts."

Spy displayed an air of indifference sprinkled with annoyance as he withdrew the cigarette from his lips to exhale a cloud of smoke into the air. "I am perfectly fine."

"Pig's arse," Sniper growled, earning another raised eyebrow in return as Spy gazed up at him. He stared steadily into Spy's eyes, tilting his head, his brow twitching as he peered through his golden aviators. "Somethin's bothering ya," he murmured.

Spy only blinked, his face cold with aloofness, as the cigarette continued to burn, the scent of nicotine wafting into the air. The Frenchman shrugged, spinning on his heel, and walked away, waving a hand in the air. "Whatever suits you, bushman."

Sniper grunted in irritation as he stared at Spy's retreating back, his eyes widening. "Now 'ang on!" he cried, having to run to catch up with the Frenchie once again. Spy did not cease walking, and so Sniper fell beside him, matching his stride evenly as his eyes narrowed even further. The Frenchman paid him no heed, his back straightened and face the perfect description of cool composure.

The Aussie didn't buy the façade. Something was bothering the spook. It was the anomalous gleam in his eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders. Spy had always been the paradigm of perfect posture, but he seemed…too rigid today. His expression was guarded, and Sniper noticed Spy's hand drifting closer to his revolver more than normal. The Frenchman was wary of something. He seemed…chary to even enter his own base. The Australian scanned the Spy once more before his eyes dawned in revelation.

"It's Operator, isn't it?"

Sniper knew he had struck home when Spy halted, swiveling his head to stare at the marksman. He still remained unperturbed by Sniper's words, but his acknowledgment was enough to encourage the Aussie further.

"Ya don't trust her."

Spy arched his eyebrows at Sniper and finally— _finally—_ he responded:

"Trust iz a notion I do not believe in."

Sniper snorted and shrugged. _Of course_ the spook wouldn't make this easy. He had to use a play of words. "Alroight, ya trust her less than the rest of us. Rather, ya don't consider her a teammate."

Spy regarded him for a long moment, withdrawing the cigarette from his lips as the white cloud of smoke slithered from his mouth. He nodded and muttered, " _Oui."_

Good. Good. He was making process. Spy was answering his questions. Just as long as he kept them short and simple, maybe his luck would run through. "Why?"

Spy's expression finally shifted in response, and he displayed a look of amusement, as if he was watching a child fail the most simplest of puzzles. Sniper felt his ears redden, but he kept his expression neutral. When Spy realized he would receive no reaction from the Aussie, he sighed.

"'ow long 'as _Mademoiselle_ Operator been 'ere, Sniper?" The dry tone of his voice made it feel as if Spy was mocking the Aussie. Sniper fought the urge to wriggle in discomfort and annoyance.

He paused before muttering, "'bout four days, I suppose."

Spy nodded slowly, as if he was encouraging a child to sing the rest of the alphabet. Sniper burned with irritation. "And 'ow many teammates now fight to sit wizh 'er during our eating breaks?"

Sniper's brow furrowed as he paused thoughtfully, running the numbers and faces through his head. His eyes narrowed as he watched Spy curiously, the answer slipping out of his lips like a waterfall. "Almost all of 'em, excluding you, Demo, an' me."

Spy nodded again with the same infuriatingly slow motion, silver eyes focused onto the Aussie as his eyebrows rose skyward, staring at him expectantly. Sniper could practically _hear_ the Frenchman's deliberately long drawl slithering into the space between them, whispering _You cannot honestly be_ _ **that**_ _dull._ Muttering incoherently beneath his breath, Sniper rubbed his chin pensively, lips curling into a frown.

And then understanding dawned. His lips parted slightly as he gaped at Spy, disbelief rushing over him as swiftly as a rushing river.

"Yeh think Operator is a mole!"

The exclamation was not loud enough to echo across the base, but Spy's eyes narrowed in silent disapproval at its volume, gaze darting along either side of the corridor. Grunting softly, he took a deep draw from his cigarette, curling his lips into a delicate 'o' and allowing the smoke to drift out of his mouth for an extensive amount of time. Once the white cloud completely escaped his lips, he tapped the cigarette with his finger, ridding the ash that accumulated at the end of the cylinder.

"And you don't?" he murmured, his thick French accent laden with scorn.

Sniper struggled to ignore the sneer in Spy's voice as he shook his head slightly, tossing out his hands on either side of him. "I wouldn't believe that the Administrator would hire a traitor, is all!"

Spy scoffed, raising his eyes to the heavens as if to ask God why he had to deal with such an imbecile. He cast Sniper a derisive, grim sneer as he shook his head and retorted, "Not everyzhing iz zhe black and white picture you perceive, bushman."

A spark erupted into Sniper's chest as he glared at the Frenchman, lips curling into a snarl. "Wot's that supposed to mean!?" he demanded.

The masked man snorted humorlessly as he tossed his diminished cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out by grinding it underneath the sole of his shoe. "How can zhe most observant class be so dull in such a situation?"

The spark ignited into a flame of anger as Sniper shoved his finger into Spy's chest. "It would 'elp if yeh weren't so bloody secretive! An' you yourself are not so trusting as Operator is!"

Spy's nose wrinkled and his lips curled into a disgusted frown as he swiped the Aussie's hand away, acting as if it was a maggot-ridden corpse. "Oh? 'ow so, bushman?"

Sniper snapped his head back to bark in hollow laughter. "'How so'!? Yeh accuse Operator of bein' a spy when you yourself _are one!_ That's yer occupation! Yeh honestly think that anyone on the team could trust _you,_ the masked man who won't even give his teammates the time of day to tell us yer name! And even if yeh did, wot's to stop yeh from lyin' to us? How can we tell between truth and lies, especially when lyin's been yer whole life! You don't help any of us during the battles, and you just slink away when fights get hairy." He shook his head bitterly, his fury with Spy's quips overwhelming his sense. The words left his lips before he considered them. "Yeh might even be less trustworthy than the sheila herself, because I'd as sure as hell don't trust ya."

Snarling a second later, Sniper spun on his heel and stomped away, not giving the Frenchman a second glance as his stomach boiled with rage, lips twitching silently as he reached the end of the corridor.

When he looked back, Spy was gone.


End file.
